Cat Scratch Fever
by Sol1056
Summary: Ken's dealing with a foster-sibling, and Aya's dealing with jealousy, while Weiss struggles to find those responsible for a dangerous new drug.
1. prologue

**cat scratch fever**

Originally titled 'benediction darkness', being revised and reworked. Any and all critiques on style, characterization, plot, etc are greatly appreciated.

rating: R

pairings: very subtle Aya/Yohji

warnings: language, violence, implied adult situations, medical issues

disclaimer: I don't own WK. But here I go, anyway.

archiving: sure, just ask

note: events are between ep19 & 20 in the original series. Living conditions & character appearances match the manga. Street-names and honorifics remain in Japanese, one for setting and the other because I intensely dislike "Kenny" as a nickname. No offense to any Kennys reading.

...xxxXxxx...

**prologue**

"A high-impact, high-addiction derivative..."

_The club was packed last night. All the little yakuza, bleached hair spiked, posing, parading, impressing their girlfriends. He'd waited by the bar for an hour, nursing a single beer, searching the crowd. This was her place. She was always there. She would be there again._

"Three, four-Methylenedioxymethamphetamine, also known as exstasy..."

_Sweat and cigarette smoke and stale beer. A bass beat slamming into his skull. Streaming lights flipping from red to blue to purple. Shockwave strobes. And the people, all the people. An hour, and nothing. No sign, no word, no message._

"But when combined with an opiate-based derivative, the combination lessens reactions like severe muscle spasms, nausea, hot flashes..."

_Five days, seventeen hours. Maybe forty-five minutes, too, if his guess is right in the length of time since he last glanced at a clock. Five days. Seventeen hours. Forty-five minutes. Stop this, man, you're driving yourself crazy for a freakin' kid. Pay attention to the stupid meeting. She's probably moved right along, anyway, and here you are. Pathetic._

"A small amount is unbelievably powerful and can be diluted up to one parts one thousand with no loss of effectiveness..."

_Dirty, brown hands, nails bitten and rough. What a creature. Not even close to a girl. More like someone's off-cast notion of a girl left to run wild with a pack of boys. A cast-off notion dragged through the dirt, left to rot in a corner, shut away._

"Above a certain level, the effect is as physically addictive as cocaine or heroin..."

_But there was a girl underneath it all. Peel back the sarcasm and old jeans. Unwrap the survival instinct and the unexpectedly delicate bra straps. Revel in the way she moaned and whimpered underneath him._

"Where exstasy does long-term psychological damage..."

_Yeah. There was a girl under there. It took a little work. But the sounds she made, the way she knew instinctively to bring her legs up, crossing her ankles behind his shoulder blades, angling her body against his, letting him go so deep? Yeah. It was worth it._

"Strong manic-depressive symptoms showing up immediately after even one dose in subjects without a history of mental illness..."

_The first time, she'd thrashed and moaned and called his name, and generally made a nuisance in his eardrums. The second time, she was quiet, hesitant, only a few whimpers escaping her lips. He had to ask her why she'd changed. He couldn't tell, and that alone amazed him. Delighted him. Intrigued him._

"The inclusion of the additives alters the design so different neuron receptors are triggered..."

_He'd run his hands up her ribcage, marveling at the lean muscles shivering under her skin. Her hips no wider than his. Her thighs and calves strong. Her waist too boyish to be feminine. Her breasts just a little small. If she starved herself, she'd be no more than a boy with large eyes and smaller hands. But he'd dug past the dirt, pushed open the doors. That was a girl under there. _

"The result is docile, passive reactions even in subjects with high antagonistic characteristics prior to testing..."

_She finally admitted she hadn't expected sex to actually feel good. When she stopped playing the part, she was swept away, and took him right with her. Those little moans. Her soft purr. Her back, arching into him as he rubbed a thumb across her nipple, following it with his tongue._

"The drug has widespread potential use, from subduing opponents to authority forces..."

_It was delicious. Addictive. Who needs a damn drug, he tells himself, scoffing at the business suits around him, nodding along with the lecture as though they understand any of the crap. He doesn't, and doesn't care; he only vaguely registers the lecture. His mind is on his plans for the night. He'll go back again tonight. Maybe swing by her work tomorrow. He could have anyone he wanted. He knew it, but he wanted her._

"Preliminary street releases have indicated potential secondary market as general drug use..."

_Dirty fingers, dirty little paws that sifted through the city's refuse, searching for ways to make it better. If anyone could fix the holes in his mind, the broken places in his life, it would be someone unafraid of dirt. Unafraid of trash. Unafraid of the work required to dig down, under the layers, to find who was really down there. Yeah, to find what was there, not to need it, to use it, but to want it. Cherish it._

"A street nickname has already developed as the drug's reputation has spread quickly..."

_She's his black hole, his empty space, his endless darkness._

"Black Cat..."

_He'll be at the club tonight, waiting._


	2. chapter one

She wonders if her shoulder is broken.

The afternoon light angles down into the city streets, glazing the office buildings in a glow of orange and gold, but she ignores it, along with the early spring heat sending tendrils of sweat down the small of her back. She crosses at Koshukaido Avenue and her bare feet tread on broken glass. She gasps, almost stumbles; a car swerves around her. She grits her teeth, pulls her work shirt tighter around her, and keeps walking, looking neither left nor right.

Fifteen blocks, twenty-five blocks. She's lost count. Her feet are raw. She's reached that comfortable numbness from having covered nearly six miles of city pavement in two hours of fast walking. People step out of her way as she heads down the sidewalk, her head up but her eyes firmly focused on the sidewalk. Her left hand clutches her right elbow as she struggles to keep from jarring the arm. Her right shoulder is visibly lower than the left. A grimy envelope is clutched in her right hand.

A shop owner in Harajuku calls out to her, startled by her gruesome and battered appearance. Each time someone hollers for her, or steps in front of her, she snaps her awareness back long enough to step around them without breaking her pace.

She's heading somewhere specific. And she's going to get there, even if she has to crawl the last twenty blocks.

...xxxXxxx...

At a ramen stand where Yamate Dori crosses Dogen Zaka, a delivery boy is locking his bike when she walks past. He's startled to overhear a young girl's voice, muttering to herself.

Stupidest fucking name, she's saying. Stupidest fucking name ever.

Glancing over his shoulder at the retreating figure, the kid notices the dark patch on the left shoulder of the navy-blue work shirt. He shrugs. It isn't until he stands up that he can see red spots on the sidewalk where she'd walked. Blood. He looks at the girl, but she's already a block away and moving fast. His boss is yelling for him, so he's got other places to be than still on the sidewalk, wondering about another crazy, a junkie, a runaway.

...xxxXxxx...

The flower shop is empty. Omi sees the last of the customers to the door and flips the sign behind them. Aya pulls up a stool behind the counter and begins to tally the day's sales. Omi's bringing in the last of the displays from outdoors. The bell on the door rings.

"We're closed," Aya says without looking up from the register.

There's no answer.

"How can..." Omi's voice trails off as he stands up and turns to face the door. The customer is standing just inside the door, her left hand clutching her right elbow. Her right arm hangs stiffly at her side. The long-sleeved work shirt has a patch on the chest pocket that says Kancho's Garage. Under the work shirt is a once-white shirt now covered with grease or dirt, and that familiar brownish-red he knows from long experience is dried blood. There's another large stain on the thigh of her cut-off jeans, and a large bruise trailing down her bare legs. Omi frowns; there's blood mixed with dirt in her footprints.

The girl's dark brown hair hangs down in her face, filthy and matted with sweat and dirt. She twitches her head, enough for the hair to fall away momentarily, revealing a single gray eye staring at Omi. Her other eye remains hidden. There is a line of blood running from her nose down past her lip, down her chin, and scratch marks on her cheek that had bled a little as well. Her lip is split, adding more blood to the gruesome stain that had dripped from her chin onto her shirt. She turns her head and the curtain of brown hides her face again.

"We're closed," Aya repeats, and Omi glances over at the counter. Aya's head is down as he records the day's sales in the accounting book.

"Aya," Omi says softly. "I don't think this is a customer." At Omi's word, the girl's head comes up, eyes barely visible. Omi can't tell if the girl is scared or just really pissed off. He isn't sure which would be better.

"Hidaka-san," the girl mutters.

"Pardon?" Omi takes a step forward but freezes when the girl shuffles back a step. "Oh...Hidaka! No, Ken's not here."

The girl dips her head, looking down at the small grimy envelope in her right hand. Her left shoulder slumps, and she looks away from Omi.

"Well, fuck." Her voice is flat, and she releases the envelope. It plummets to the floor. Backing up a step, she lets go of her elbow long enough to pull the door open without looking. "Sorry for bothering you."

"Wait," Omi says, taking another step forward. "Ken works here – he's just out right now." His hands are out, the palms up. "He should be back any minute now. You can wait for him." He leads her to a chair by the flower-arranging table.

Aya comes around from behind the counter, and Omi smiles at the girl, trying to make up for Aya's glare at the dirty footprints across the shop's floor, and then at the girl. Biting back an irritated sigh, Aya heads into the back to grab the mop and bucket. When he returns, Omi is bringing in the last of the outside displays. With a grunt, Aya finishes the quick cleanup and shoves the mop into the bucket.

"Your arm," Aya says, and the girl flinches just a little.

"What about it," she replies. She doesn't look at him when she answers.

"It's dislocated."

"That's one theory." Her tone's a shrug and a dismissal at the same time.

Aya narrows his eyes. Omi comes to stand by the table, and brushes his hands off on his apron. He leans over, studying the girl's hunched shoulders carefully.

"We can fix that," Omi says. "Or would you rather go to a doctor?"

"No doctors," the girl hisses.

Aya grunts, and Omi gives him a worried look. Before the girl can react, Aya's hands are around her ribs. He hauls her to a standing position. Idly, Omi observes her hair is cut high in the back, revealing a long tanned neck, and then he sees the flash of fear on the girl's face.

"Aya-kun," Omi starts to protest. "Let me tell her—"

Aya ignores Omi, and ducks one arm under the girl's left shoulder. In a swift move, he grabs her right arm with his other hand. The girl whimpers once and Aya is pulling her right arm up, back, and out. He yanks harshly. A bell chimes as the front door opens and swings closed. The store echoes with a popping sound; the girl screams, a cry sharp with pain.

Aya lets go of her. She falls to the chair, clutching her elbow as she twists to glare up at him.

"You damned—"

The girl's words are cut short by an orange blur moving past her. It streaks across Omi's vision and tackles Aya with a shout.

"Aya," Ken yells. "You bastard, you get the hell away from her!"

"Ken, no!" Omi launches himself out Ken's way, twisting to keep his feet.

Ken lands a solid punch against Aya's jaw. Aya falls back several steps, one hand on his jaw. Dropping his hand, Aya glares at Ken. Omi grabs for Ken, letting go when Aya retaliates with a right hook. He moves from the waist, without warning, lethally fast.

"Aya, stop!"

Omi ducks when Ken's head snaps backwards from Aya's blow. Beside them the girl is scrambling to get out of the way.

"Stop, both of you!" Omi screams. Shit, just what I need, the two of them killing each other and Yohji's not even here to help me break it up. Omi ducks under another swing from Ken, grabbing at Ken's waist. The punch lands squarely in Aya's stomach. Aya goes down, falling backwards from the force.

"I'll break your arms," Ken is shouting. "I'll snap your wrist for hurting her—"

Aya sprawls on the floor, his back against the refrigerated display units. The doorbell rings for the third time.

"Idiot," Aya growls.

He comes to his feet, slowly: a controlled, graceful rise. A trickle of blood runs down his jaw where Ken busted his lip; his eyes are narrowed slits, the purple irises swallowed by black. Omi frowns at his teammates and tries to think of the best way to break them up, distract them. The girl is crouched behind Omi; he can feel the fear radiating off her, spiking as Aya and Ken circle each other.

...xxxXxxx...

Omi's back is to the girl, and he doesn't see her reach for the nearby mop. Yohji stands up from where he'd grabbed the envelope off the floor, and sums up the situation in one glance. Shoving the envelope in his pocket, he's at the girl's side right as she swings the mop. She's aiming for the back of Aya's knees. Aya twists, snagging the mop handle at the same instant that Yohji jerks the handle from the girl's grasp.

Yohji steps away, releasing his hold on the mop. It clatters to the floor, the other end still in Aya's hands.

"What the hell is going on here?" Yohji's voice is raised, his expression incredulous. Aya's knuckles are white around the mop handle, and he's shooting death at both Ken and the girl half-hidden behind Yohji. Ken doesn't move, but his fists are clenched.

"She came in," Omi finally says. "Dislocated shoulder. Aya was fixing it but Ken must've thought..." He mumbles to a halt, obviously too distressed – or perhaps aggravated, it's always hard to tell – to continue.

Yohji turns to Aya with an expectant look.

"You're welcome," Aya snarls with an icy glare that takes in the whole group. He flings the mop away from him and stalks out the back door of the shop. A door slams in the back.

"Why'd you get in the middle of it?" Yohji asks the girl. He's still a little bewildered, but he'd come in early enough to see it had been a fight between Aya and Ken until the girl got involved. She had to be stupid or suicidal to get between those two.

She doesn't say anything. Yohji notices she's shifting her weight as if for a rapid retreat. Not as confident as you'd like me to think, are you. You'd be dead in two seconds if Aya – or Ken – were really fighting.

"Next time, avoid the crossfire," Yohji finally tells her.

He picks up the mop, setting it back in the bucket, ignoring Omi's relieved sigh. Ken's glare has transferred to the girl, who hunches her shoulders and doesn't look up. Yohji lets his sunglasses slip down his nose and brings out the envelope, turning it over in his hands. It's covered with bloody fingerprints, mingled with the dirty sweat of being held in a hot palm for too long.

Yohji gives the girl a long, steady look, and purses his lips. Pity when people think girls make good punching bags. It turns his stomach, and he stares down at the envelope for another second before opening it, bringing out the card. Both eyebrows go up as he reads the short note, and he holds it between two fingers. Ken's jaw juts, ready to argue, and Yohji sighs, keeping his expression calm, almost bored. Anything more and Ken will leap back into fighting mode without a second thought.

Or a first thought, Yohji grumbles.

"You always make a point of making it easy for people to find you?" Yohji's tone is amiable. "Aya is going to be furious."

"Aya's already furious," Omi observes.

Ken stops at that, and exhales slowly. The fight goes out of him, and Yohji is satisfied, and uses the breather to study the girl, who's staring at Ken with a wary expression. Whoever this girl is, she means a great deal to Ken, if he'd risk Kritiker's displeasure by giving the girl a tip on his present location. But really, Yohji knows, he can't fault Ken for it. It's not like it's that out of character, really. Ken might be clumsy and loud, but his heart and hands are always at the ready for a friend, and this girl looks like someone who needs a friend, and badly.

Hell. It takes only a heartbeat and one more look for Yohji to know he wouldn't protest – much – if he were asked to lend a hand pounding the girl's attackers, despite his natural preference to stay out of such things. She's got a glare almost up there with Aya's level, but under it she's just a kid. Bruised, bloody, and scared to death but glaring right back at Ken... attitude being the last refuge of the cornered, Yohji reminds himself.

"Let's get you cleaned up," Ken says, and takes the girl by the elbow. She winces, and he lightens his grip with a slight frown. When she doesn't move immediately, he pulls more sharply. She makes a noncommittal grunt, her feet dragging.

The edge of Yohji's mouth wants to curl up at the girl's recalcitrant scowl, but more because Ken looks fit to be tied, and that's always amusing to Yohji. He slides the card back into the envelope, tapping it against his palm several times. Omi's normally wide blue eyes are regarding Ken and the girl with a calculating expression. When Omi notices Yohji's raised eyebrows, his look melts into a pleasant smile. Yohji isn't fooled. Omi has to know the difficulties this presents, as well as – if not better than – Yohji does.

"Move, Rai," Ken is saying. "My apartment's upstairs."

"Ken." Omi finds his voice as Ken starts to follow the girl down the back hallway. For that one word, it's not Omi's usual cheerful tone. It's the solid, commanding voice of their team's strategic leader, reminding Ken that he might play at being a host, but in two hours he'll need to be an assassin again.

"I know," Ken calls over his shoulder. "Later. I need a shower, and I'm starving."

The back door shuts behind Ken and the injured girl. Yohji pockets the envelope and sinks down into the nearest chair, sighing. Omi steps outside to pull down the gate. What the hell is going on? Yohji grimaces.

"I need a smoke," he tells the empty room.

Aya and Ken in blood lust is enough to make a person either need to get seriously drunk, or swear off alcohol forever. They're both just too damn intense, and always over the littlest things. Yohji smirks; things would be so much easier if those two would learn from his example, but that's never going to happen. Bullheaded idiots. He leans back in the chair and stretches his arms over his head.

When Omi returns, keys rattling, Yohji gets up. "You hungry?"

"Sure." Omi removes his apron with a grin. "You buying?"

...xxxXxxx...

"Are you done yet?" Ken stands in the hallway, listening to water sloshing in the tub.

"Almost." Rai's voice echoes in the bathroom's close confines. "Do you have an extra toothbrush, too?"

Ken sighs.

"Use mine." He wanders back to the living room, snagging a leftover pizza crust to munch on. Ken considers being aggravated with Rai, then thinks about his own slow movements after a rough mission. He'd sent her flowers so she'd have at least one day in her life she'd gotten flowers; hell, he worked in a florist's shop, and it was the least he could do. He isn't sure he would've been so generous if he'd known she'd show up on his doorstep with the crap beaten out of her.

Problem is, he's not sure if he's mad because someone hurt her or mad because she's there in the first place.

He stares down at the medical supplies spread across the coffee table. Hydrogen peroxide, sterile pads, bandages, surgeon's tape, sutures, needles, tweezers. Ken squeezes the tube of Xylocaine. This isn't going to be enough. Oh, it'd be enough for her leg and shoulder. Doubtful there's enough for her feet, too, and he picks up the phone, speed-dialing without really paying attention.

He hangs up when Omi's machine answers. Ken tries Yohji's line next. No answer. Which means Ken has to go ask Aya, or figure out a way to break into a pharmacy and pick up some sleeping meds and some extra topical painkillers. One mission a night is enough, he thinks. He drops the tube back on the table and heads back to the bathroom door.

"When you come out, don't walk."

"What?" The tub is draining.

"Scoot on your ass. I don't want you walking on those feet." Ken crosses his arms and leans against the doorjamb. "And don't put that tank top on until I have a chance to bind up your shoulder."

"I am not walking around naked!"

"Use a towel."

There's silence for a moment. Finally she says: "Anything else?"

He grins. "Yeah, if I'm not here, don't panic. I'll be right back."

"Where are you going?"

He doesn't answer.

...xxxXxxx...

Ken takes a deep breath after knocking. There's no sound from inside; Aya's footsteps are too light. But the light is on in the front window, and it's not like Aya would go out.

"I need Xylocaine," Ken says when the door opens.

Aya raises a single eyebrow.

Ken dips his head for a second before his gaze meets Aya's stare. His chin juts just a little. "She's the closest thing to a sister I've got."

Aya seems a little surprised, then nods as he steps back to let Ken enter the apartment.

Ken tries to appear calm, but his stomach flips at the sensation of entering Aya's space. He hates intruding on Aya's minimalist interior. Hell, Ken thinks, Aya makes minimalists look cluttered: the modern, austere sofa; the two metal chairs sitting by the simple glass-topped table. The kitchen countertops are completely bare of appliances; the walls are plain. No pictures. No calendar. Nothing. It's a stark complement to Aya's own appearance, the whiplash-lean body that would seem slender, breakable, but for the steel running through the center. And that crimson hair, which always leaves Ken just a bit confused as to how someone who looks that... _strange_, he possibly blend in so well. As if through sheer will, Aya simply ceases to exist, becomes part of the steel and glass and emptiness of the space around him. It bugs the frickin' hell out of him, sometimes.

He chews on the inside of his mouth and tries to act suitably appreciative when Aya returns with a large white box. Flipping it open on the countertop, Aya rifles through the properly and precisely catalogued interior. Idly, Ken wonders why Aya bothers to look. He probably knows perfectly well what he has and what's lacking. Another thing that bugs the hell out of him, Ken decides. The list is pretty long, sometimes.

Aya hands him a full tube, silently.

"And any of the sedative? Whatever it's called."

"Demerol," Aya replies, handing him a bottle.

Ken takes it with a sheepish grin, cheerfully forgetting he ever had a list of things he hated about his teammate. "Thanks." Ken turns to go, but Aya's voice stops him.

"Do you need help?"

...xxxXxxx...

Rai is sitting on the sofa when Ken drops the medicines on the table. The deep bruises on her legs are easily visible; she's wearing only a towel, which barely reaches past her hips. Her feet are bleeding again, just like her shoulder and thigh.

"Tuck the towel in and raise your arms a little," Ken tells her.

He grabs the bandages and perches himself on the sofa arm. A temporary bandage on her shoulder wound will have to do. He starts wrapping the ace bandages around her chest, under her arm, up over her shoulder, and back around again.

"You going to tell me what happened?" His voice is neutral.

"Do I have to?"

"Hell yeah." Ken shoots a look over his shoulder at Aya, who is waiting silently. Rai doesn't seem to have noticed the second man's presence.

"I need to borrow forty-two thousand yen."

"What for?" Ken stands up, moving around her to study her left shoulder, frowning at the blood-soaked gauze. "Rai," Ken warns. "I'm tired, I had to cook dinner for two, I still haven't had a shower, and I punched a coworker this afternoon. What happened?" Ken holds up the tank top and she puts her arms up so he can pull it over her head. "Who did this?"

She ignores the question and straightens the tank top around herself, then pulls the towel out from underneath the shirt. The tank top runs low on the sides, and he can see the ripple of her bones under her skin.

Ken looks over her head to see Aya holding out a glass of water. Ken takes it with a grateful nod and hands it to Rai, who stares at it. There's a line appearing between her eyebrows, and she gives the glass a bewildered look. Ken takes her other hand, dropping three pills onto her palm.

"Take these," he tells her sternly.

"What are they?"

"Pills."

"I can see that."

"You rather I shove them down your throat?"

"I don't like pills."

"Take them anyway." Ken crosses his arms. Way he sees it, either he's got to intimidate her into taking the medicine, or he'll have to just shove the pills down her throat.

"I didn't ask you to take care of me, you know," she retorts. She still hasn't swallowed them.

"You showed up," he points out. "Far as I'm concerned, that's a request." Ken blows his bangs out of his eyes and gives her a weary look. Has she always been this obstinate, or did he just forget that part in the years since being her almost-brother? "Just take them."

Her left shoulder slumps a little in defeat and she shovels the three pills into her mouth, following it up with a large swallow of water. Ken points to the sofa and she sighs, turning to lie down on her stomach.

Rai flinches when he puts a hand on the small of her back. Carefully he twitches at the bottom of the tank top, pulling it down a little to completely cover her panties. Dutifully she lies still while he bandages her knee. Every now and then he glances up at her prone body, wondering whether the sedative has kicked in.

...xxxXxxx...

"I think she's out," Aya whispers. He'd moved to watch at the top of the sofa as Ken finishes wrapping Rai's knee.

"Took long enough," Ken replies.

Aya surveys the damage. "I'll do the feet."

The two men work in silence. No words are needed; the distance between them is the natural course after one more argument that came down to fists. Ken swears under his breath as he digs the needle through Rai's shoulder, pulling it tight with a soft snapping motion. Aya ignores the sound; his mind is on the night's mission, but he can't help but note the girl's injuries.

Absentmindedly he plays with theories, not sure why he's bothering. Corner of a glass coffee table, maybe. Or the end of a countertop. Something hard, protruding, that she hit with a great deal of force; add to that the damage she obviously did on her own, and she's nothing but a mass of cuts, bruises, and prickly attitude lost in drugged sleep.

Ken speaks without moving his gaze from the girl's shoulder. "How's it coming down there?"

"Slow." Aya's gaze flickers to Ken over the tops of his reading glasses before he goes back to plucking gravel out of the girl's right foot. Ken's tongue is out, flicking at his lips as he concentrates; every few minutes he tosses his hair to get it out of his eyes. Aya extracts a sliver of glass from the ball of Rai's foot. "Time?"

"Eight." Ken scoots down the sofa to sit next to Rai's thigh and cleans the wound with a rag soaked in hydrogen peroxide.

The thigh muscle twitches. She might be coming around. No, her breath is still deep and even. She's still out. Her left arm hangs over the edge of the sofa. Ken stretches, then leans over to inspect her hand, holding it up. Aya gives Rai's hand a disapproving glance; her fingernails are filthy. Ken wraps his hand around hers, bending her hand backwards so he can look at her palm.

Aya raises his head. "What is it?" His voice is soft, and he studies her feet, poising the tweezers above another embedded sliver.

"Her fingers aren't broken."

Aya waits. There's no need to ask; Ken doesn't know the value of not saying out loud what runs through his mind. Sometimes it bothers Aya, but at least, it means he doesn't have to waste breath to ask questions. Ken will answer as if they were asked. Still, there're several seconds before he speaks, and Aya wonders at the pause.

"She's a mechanic," Ken finally says. "Her fingers, her wrists. Most important tools of the trade."

That makes sense to Aya. Getting nimble fingers in and out of tight places in engines, car bodies, holding a torch in one hand and a scraping brush in the other, running a spark plug against the circular gauge, fiddling with butterfly valves.

"Seen her work, once," Ken says, half to himself. "Her sixteenth birthday. That's when I sent her flowers..."

Aya doesn't react, but listens intently.

Ken purses his lips, as though Aya's silence were a complete response in its own way. "If her hands aren't broken, it means those jackass brothers of hers didn't want her unable to work."

"Brothers?" Aya asks despite himself.

"Her real family." Ken snorts. The way he says it, the meaning is clear: like real family means shit these days.

Aya wonders what Rai would need money for, that she'd come all that way to Ken, rather than turn to her own family, her blood-brothers.

"She has two older brothers, one younger," Ken mutters. "She got placed with them two years ago, when her real father finally kicked the bucket. Oldest brother got custody back from the government. Don't know why," he mumbles under his breath. "Useless trash...Wannabe yakuza, low-rent thugs."

Aya puzzles over the fact that Ken automatically assumes the culprits were Rai's brothers. He suspects the irony isn't lost on Ken that one reason might be gambling debts. It's common enough, certainly.

Ken ties a knot and snips the suture thread. He gets up, rests his hand softly on Rai's head for a long heartbeat, then withdraws his hand. His fingers trail across the dark brown strands, tucking a few behind her ear. She twitches, moving against the pressure of his fingertips, then falls back into sleep.

"Going to take a shower," Ken says.

"About time," Aya murmurs, too low for Ken to hear. He wipes down her blood stained feet with antibiotic cream, and trying not to think about the touch of Ken's hand on Rai's face. It's not the touch that keeps coming back to his mind. It's the fact that Rai moved, just a little, responding to the caress.

Aya scowls down at Rai's feet, and begins to bandage them.

...xxxXxxx...

Yohji follows Aya to his apartment, rather than head up to his own place. Aya glances behind him, the glare warning him away, but Yohji just smiles lazily and holds his ground. After a few seconds of stand off, Aya's gaze falls away, and it's the most surrender he'll give.

"Med kit in the same place?" Yohji rolls his eyes at Aya's growl. "I'll take that as a yes."

In the living room, Aya's stripping off his shirt, and feeling along the small of his back and across his side. Even as stoic as he is sometimes, his fingers jerk when they touch the edges of the knife wound. Yohji drops the towels and the med kit on Aya's glass coffee table.

"Sit down," Yohji orders, and after a second – long enough to indicate he's not giving in, just deciding on his own to cooperate – Aya perches on the edge of the coffee table, his back to Yohji.

If there's any sign of trust in him, it's that moment of turning his back willingly on anyone. Of course, he turned his back on one of their targets tonight, and it nearly cost him a kidney, but it wasn't like Aya had a choice, Yohji tells himself. Three others coming from the opposite direction made the odds easy to calculate.

Yohji kneels down, grimacing at the hard floor under his knees, and swabs carefully at the wound. "Clean cut," he reports, and studies the wound. "No stitches needed, I think."

"Then leave it," Aya says, starting to move away.

"Don't move," Yohji replies, catching Aya by the hips and pulling him back down. Aya's back stiffens at the unwelcome touch. Goddamnit, you boneheaded asshole, Yohji wants to snap, you've made your displeasure clear for the record. Now just shut up and sit there and take a bit of help like a man. But he doesn't say it; Aya's katana is only an arm's length away, and he does value what little living he gets to do. He'd like to keep it up a bit longer.

In retaliation, Yohji covers a gauze pad with hydrogen peroxide, and Aya's incensed hiss is a pleasing sound to Yohji's ears. He smirks, but Aya doesn't move away or protest, though his skin shivers and twitches at the sting of the chemical running down the wound. Yohji dabs it up, covering the thin wound-slice with cream, and bandages it neatly.

"Done," he says, getting to his feet.

"Now go away," Aya replies, pulling his shirt to his chest when he stands up. He turns away slightly, but only enough that he's looking at Yohji out of the corner of his eye. He's standing at the edge of exhaustion, but he's not going to fall until he's alone.

Yohji figures it's time to get to the point.

"You took care of that girl's arm this afternoon."

Aya narrows his eyes, and looks away. His lips are set in a firm line.

"Well, well," Yohji says, just a hint of mocking, but not so much it'll set off Aya's delicate proximity alarms when it comes to ridicule. "There is a human being under there."

"What's your point?" Aya doesn't bristle, really. He just grows completely still. He always seems so braced for someone to hit him, though they'd lose an arm – or both – if they tried.

"And then I hear you helped Ken clean her up." Yohji casually gathers up the bloodied gauze, and strolls past Aya to dump it in the kitchen trash. "Good of you," but he says it like it could be an insult, because a compliment just might be fighting words. "Get some sleep, Aya, long day tomorrow dealing with flowers."

While the rest of us deal with your thorns, he wants to add. We should get wartime pay just for your attitude, and he smirks, amused by his own wit.

"If you're going out drinking, don't expect me to wait up for you," Aya spits. His arms come up, holding the shirt against his chest as he crosses his arms, glowering. He opens his mouth, but Yohji holds up a hand.

"I know, I know, I'm a slut," and he laughs, shrugging. "They love me. Don't know why you insist on being the only one not in the crowd. More love in this world, and it might be a better place. Especially love for _me_."

He sighs melodramatically, and leers at Aya's bare chest, the curve and dip of pectoral muscles down to a lean, flat stomach. Not quite as classically masculine as an athlete's body, and almost girlish, but Yohji's never going to repeat that observation out loud, though he gets a kick out of it. Then, one glance at Aya's closed-off face, and Yohji knows suddenly that a line was crossed somewhere. The eyes are shuttered, the chin up, the lips no longer tight but relaxed, a bit open with soft breathing; it's a startling change, even if only in minute details on an otherwise inscrutable face. Yohji lets the moment hang, not sure how to go forward or move backwards.

Heartbeats pass, until Aya turns away. "Ken would've fucked it up, if he'd done it all on his own."

Yohji accepts that as dismissal, and leaves without a word. He remembers the startled look on Aya's face, and doesn't forget what he learned.


	3. chapter two

Aya puts his hand on the doorknob as he gets out his key and is surprised to feel the knob turn easily in his hand. He steps into the back hallway, his senses on full alert, and freezes when he hears a girl's voice echoing from the shop.

"Leave off, I can figure this out."

There is a sound of a light slap, followed by a man's laugh.

Aya relaxes slightly. He debates whether he should backtrack and make more noise as he enters. Instead, he leans against the wall behind the door to the shop, then carefully pries the delivery clip board off its hook. He knows he's giving himself a cover but he listens anyway.

"Where's my coke?" Rai's voice sounds distrustful. Something rustles. A paper bag, maybe.

"I got you orange juice."

"You what?"

Aya smirks, wry. Ken and his salads. His healthy drinks. His good-for-you foods.

"I knew I should've gone with you." She's irked, but Aya can hear the slurping of someone drinking thirstily.

"Not with those feet."

"Forget that! What about these stupid sandals?"

Something solid hits the ground. Aya remembers Ken asking Omi for a pair of shoes, and realizes the sound was Omi's shoes being kicked off onto the floor.

"You're lucky my coworker has small feet – and was willing to loan shoes out."

"Aren't I." She sounds sarcastic, with a dose of affection. "Which one is the small-footed guy?"

"Omi."

Aya's ears perk. He wonders whether he's going to have to suffer through a conversation about his team. He certainly doesn't want to hear Ken's opinion of his teammates, let alone Ken's opinion of him. He's relieved when Rai changes topics.

"You do this all day long?"

"Except on my days off."

"Weird."

"What's weird about it?" Ken sounds a little defensive, but Aya can tell from the tone that he's grinning.

"Just... you. In a flower... place."

"It's called a florist's."

"Yeah, whatever. Just... weird."

"You said that already."

Aya sighs. He misses the casual sound of two voices, but listening isn't going to do anything but make him bitter that Ken has someone to call sister. Especially when Aya feels with every passing moment that his own sister is moving farther away, gone, adrift, lost. His fingers clutch the pen tightly. His knuckles are white as he grips the clipboard.

His thoughts are interrupted by a steady beeping sound. Through the window in the rear door, he can see a truck backing into the loading area behind the shop. In four steps he is down the hallway and out the back door, nodding sullenly to the regular driver. Ken joins him a few seconds later.

"Damn, I can't find—" Ken sees Aya, then sees the clipboard in Aya's hand. "Oh, you've got it."

"I'll do the orders," Aya says. He turns his back on Ken and focuses on the truck.

"Gotcha," Ken replies, retreating into the building.

...xxxXxxx...

"What's going on?" Rai looks up from her perch behind the counter. One sandal is on the floor, and the other several feet away. Her bandaged feet are hooked in the lowest rung of the stool as she leans over the counter. She's finished lettering two signs and is starting on the third.

"Delivery. Aya's getting it." Ken leans against the table, the inventory momentarily forgotten as he stares down the hallway at the back door. Ken shakes himself out of his contemplations. Aya comes and goes so silently; maybe Yohji was right that they should put a bell on him. Secretly sometimes he thinks it might be a good idea, if there were a way to do it without dying at the same time.

"Which one is Aya?" Rai is studying the sign carefully. The tip of her tongue points from the corner of her mouth as she concentrates.

"The redhead."

"Oh. Mister Attitude." Rai sits up from her task. "Mister I won't ask, I'll just—" She sees Ken's disapproving stare. "What?"

"He has an attitude. He also reset your shoulder." Ken crosses his arms. "And he spent an hour picking gravel and glass out of your feet."

"So I owe him a thanks. Assuming he can ever be civil and talk to people..." Rai catches Ken's expression. Her voice trails off to a quiet grumble under her breath.

Sure he can, Ken thinks. Just not about things you'd know anything about. Well, he reflects, on second thought, Aya might talk about his Porsche. But that'd be about it. And then you'd open your mouth and leave him completely cold with your questions about engine size and fuel pumps and other gear-head idiocies.

"You in there?" Rai throws a pen cap at him.

Ken grins as it hits him in the shoulder. "You still have bad aim."

"And you still sleep like the dead. And snore. Horribly."

"I doubt it." Ken rolls his eyes. He picks up the inventory sheet, turning to stare at the assorted boxes of florist tape and blocks.

"I'll get a tape recorder and prove it to you. You made the windows rattle." Rai sits up as she finishes the third sign. "It's not normal."

"You talk in your sleep," Ken retort. "Something about tinfoil, and you say I'm not normal?"

"You're just upset I didn't profess my undying love for you."

"If you'd done that, I'd have known you'd been abducted by aliens and replaced with a replica." He grins smugly, and he throws the inventoried florist tape into a separate box. Rai bends over the counter to letter the last sign as neatly as she can manage, and for a few minutes there's silence in the shop. Finally she sits up, snapping the lid on the marker with a flourish.

"I do not talk about tinfoil." Rai holds up two of the signs for Ken's approval. "Where's the scotch tape?"

Ken looks over at the signs. "You got the prices reversed. Roses aren't 400 each. Daisy bundles are."

"How do you know?"

"Because Aya made a list, and I actually read it." Ken points to the stack of notes by the register.

Rai shuffles through the papers. Frowning, she studies Aya's precise but graceful handwriting. She holds it up against the sign she'd lettered; the flowing characters a far cry from her own bold marks. "He writes like a girl," she announces, dubious. "So who are the other two guys?"

"Omi's the youngest. Yohji's the oldest." He's finished with the florist tape and is counting the foam blocks used as bases for some of the flower arrangements. "Yohji's a good guy, but he gets around."

"Really." She grins wickedly.

"Don't even think about it." Ken glowers momentarily, then his eyes narrow; he looks smug. "Yohji's a six-condom lover."

"Ken!" It's Rai's turn to be shocked.

"Don't tell me I made you blush?" Ken laughs and runs a hand through his dark brown hair. He's pleased with himself. As soon as he takes his hand away his bangs fell right back in his face. "Never thinks I'd see the day."

"Yeah, well, never thinks I'd hear you with a perverted comeback." Rai holds up the sign she'd just completed.

"I've been practicing." He shuffles the rest of the foam blocks back into the storage bin and returns to the counter. "Anyway, if you can do the register, that'll leave me free to deal with the customers. Aya can do arrangements, he's better than anyone." Ken takes two of the signs. "If the customers get to you, hide behind Aya. He'll clear them out in no time."

"Hide behind him?" Rai mock-shudders. Ken raises an eyebrow at her. "More likely I'll hide behind you to get away from him. He gives me the creeps. Bizarre crazy-looking eyes."

"Oh, like I see your eye color everyday."

"You would if you brought that beat-up motorcycle so I can work on it properly."

"You are not touching my bike." Ken tapes the corrected signs to the flower buckets. "I do enough work on it. I'm not spending more time fixing anything you break." He pushes too hard at the second bucket and nearly tips it onto its side, but catches it at the last minute with an abashed grin.

"I'm a professional, you moron." She leans forward on the counter, propping her chin in her hands. "Anyway, I deal with customers in Kancho's shop all the time. They tell you what they want, you give it to them, you take their money. This isn't rocket science."

"No, it's hell," Ken says, tossing a grin over his shoulder as he stands up.

"Hell is having to sleep with your blanket-hugging ass."

"I still want to know more about this fixation with tinfoil," Ken replies. His large brown eyes are wide, but the innocent effect is ruined when he grins again.

"Tinfoil?" Aya's deep voice startles them both.

Rai sits up quickly and promptly knocks over the cup of pens next to the register. Blue ball point pens fly everywhere. Aya doesn't turn to look; a muscle flickers in his jaw.

"Damn, sorry," Rai whispers as she collects the pens on the counter and drops them into the cup. In the chill of Aya's entrance, the rattling sound of five pens hitting plastic makes her jump. "Sorry," she repeats softly as she hops off the stool to collect the pens on the floor.

"Get back on that seat!" Ken is across the store in two strides, his brows down, heading straight for her. She backpedals quickly, hopping back onto the stool just as he gets within pushing distance. "And stay there," he adds. Ken leans over and snags the last three pens in a quick movement. Dropping them on the counter, he gives Rai another stern look. "I'm serious."

She sticks out her lower lip. Rai's gaze darts around Ken, checking; he realizes she's worried about being reprimanded in front of an audience, but Aya's gone. Ken returns to his chores, and a minute later Aya reappears with several long boxes. He drops them on the table and heads to the back again.

Rai regards Ken with a mischievous grin. "Guess now isn't the time to ask if you're going to carry me to the bathroom?"

"What?" Ken gives her a bewildered look, then scowls. "Shut up already."

Rai grumbles quietly for a second, then shrugs. She leans onto the counter, watching as the two men prepare the shop for its daily opening.

...xxxXxxx...

By mid-morning Aya is reluctantly admitting the girl isn't entirely useless. She at least seems determined to stay out of his way, and offers no more conversation than he would've offered himself. That is to say, absolutely none. He gets a perverse sense of pleasure contemplating his brash teammate being cursed with surly, introverted people.

The morning rush comes and goes in the space of an hour. The last thing the customers expect is a girl behind the counter, her long bangs framing her face and hiding it half the time. The oversized soccer jersey on her small frame makes more than a few of the girls throw suspicious looks Ken's way. The long sleeves cover the bruises on her wrists, and the jeans cover the garish colors on her legs. And she's decent with the customers and fast with the change.

Ken goes out to get lunch for the three of them. It's his turn, anyway; Aya had gone the previous two days. Frankly, he had half-expected Ken would refuse to leave him alone with Rai, just because Ken can get stubborn like that. But perhaps the morning's peace has been enough to satisfy Ken that he wouldn't be returning to a scene of blood, gore, and chopped plant.

The doorbell rings and Aya looks up from the arrangement before him. Three young women hover in the doorway, local office workers on their lunch break; the first, in a blue knock-off designer suit, is pulling out bouquets and regarding them thoughtfully. Her two friends glance at Aya, and giggle; he grits his teeth and waits to see if they'll actually purchase anything.

He's startled when the three women see Rai and promptly fall silent. The first woman, holding a bouquet, murmurs something to her friends about Ken. Rai doesn't offer any explanations, and the women are too familiar with Aya's stern expression to ask him.

"You going to buy those?" Rai's flat voice breaks the silence. The woman obediently hands over her money, accepts the change and the flowers. The three women leave without another word, but their backwards glances are suspicious and disdainful.

Aya glances over, one quick look, as Rai tucks her hair behind an ear. She looks grumpy, but hurt, at the same time. His eyebrows go up, involuntarily. He knows what that expression would have meant on his sister's face, although he doubts he'd ever hear his sister be rude to anyone. He'll find her and she'll laugh and cry and talk and sing but she sure as hell wouldn't be the kind of person to coldly shove at people with foul words or an icy front.

No, Aya realizes, that's his job. He'd learnt that lesson so she'd never have to.

...xxxXxxx...

Yohji buries his head in the pillow, groaning when the pounding at his door times itself perfectly with his hangover's rhythm. The noise refuses to go away. Giving up, he rolls out of bed. "I'm coming, shut up," he mutters, scratching at his chest as he pulls on a pair of jeans. Rubbing his eyes, he stumbles to the door.

"I need a favor," Ken says without preamble, pushing into the apartment

"This better involve death," Yohji replies. "It's only twelve-thirty." He rubs his forehead as he heads to the fridge for some beer. Maybe whiskey would be better. His spider sense is telling him he's about to get dumped with a project. He takes out a glass from the upper cabinet.

"Don't drink," Ken orders. "I need you to run an errand for me."

"Bike broken?" Yohji ignores Ken's comment. He brings out a half-empty bottle of whiskey, shakes it, checks the amount.

"I need you to meet my friend's brother and get her stuff from him."

"When?" Yohji halts, the whiskey bottle tilted and ready to pour.

"As soon as you can."

"Which part of twelve-thirty did you not get?" Yohji puts the whiskey bottle down. Frowning, he leans his head against the cabinet for several seconds before turning around to face Ken with a lazy smile. "Borrow Aya's car."

Ken's lost for a response for a half-beat, then catches up. "Assuming he even would let me within ten feet of it, that would mean I run the errand..." His grin gets wider, delivering the final blow. "And you'd be stuck working with Aya."

Yohji buries his face in his hands. Ken's smile disappears, and he shakes his head.

"But, no, I can't ask Aya."

"Why not?" Yohji leans against the countertop and crosses his arms. His fingers itch to pour the whiskey. That would take the edge of the hangover, at least.

"Rai didn't think it'd be a good idea." Ken shifts his feet nervously. "Not sure... but I think this is all because my friend's brothers found out she's dating a foreigner."

"Sick bastards, and bigots." Yohji shakes his head slowly. He glances down at the whiskey bottle. "Of the four of us, you look least like a gaijin."

"Keep your sunglasses on," Ken says helpfully, looking Yohji over. "The hair just looks like a bad dye job, after all." He dissembles nonchalance badly; the grin is threatening again. "Unless you really want to cover my shift with Aya..."

"Not if I have a choice. Aya and hangovers don't mix." Yohji pushes away from the countertop. "Where do I need to go?"

"Kabukicho," Ken says and drops a key into Yohji's empty glass. "That'll get you in my apartment. Shouldn't be much to get, from what Rai says. Two boxes, or maybe in bags. I'll cover for you at the shop if you can bring them in."

"She walked all the way from there?" Yohji stares at the key. "Damn."

"Thanks for doing this," Ken says over his shoulder as he opens the door. "Gotta get back with lunch before Aya kills Rai...or the other way around."

...xxxXxxx...

"Got lunch," Ken calls as he pushes the front door open. "Rai, stay there."

"I have got to get up," she replies, a hint of a whine starting up in her voice. "My ass is asleep."

Ken grins as he drops off Aya's lunch. "Come on, then, we'll eat in the back."

"Hey!" Rai sits up straight. "Carry me!"

"Bite me!"

Aya listens as she leaves, her gauze-wrapped feet slapping quietly on the floor. For a long minute, he stares blindly at his lunch. God, he thinks. I can't take this. She shouldn't be here. The risk is too great. I should say something...but he can't. All he can think is: am I really such a cruel bastard that I'm hating Ken for having her visit? What I wouldn't give...

He pushes the thought away. Opens the carryout carton. Realizes...and glances around the table, puzzled. Where's my drink? Aggravated, Aya's about to get up when he hears padding footsteps behind him and a tanned hand with dirty fingernails appears in the corner of his vision, plunking his drink down on the table. He doesn't turn around.

"Thanks," she finally whispers.

Aya doesn't say anything as she departs. He lets his breath out softly once the backroom's door is closed.

...xxxXxxx...

Yohji drops the third and final box on Ken's floor, vaguely surprised that there's open space on the floor for any additional stuff. Ken is a packrat. Yohji has his own difficulties with keeping things neat, but even he has to bow before Ken's ability when it comes to complete chaos. There are clothes across the back of the sofa, dirty dishes and damp dishrags on the countertop, and shoes piled around the door. There's dirty dinnerware on the coffee table, and a stack of medical supplies.

Probably from putting that girl back together, Yohji muses.

Soccer balls huddle in one corner; sports magazines pile nearly a foot high against the wall. The kitchen table is piled high with clean clothes that hadn't been folded. The television sits on a plastic crate. The VCR flashes 12:00 repeatedly. The X-box is shoved up against the wall by the television, with a few games scattered haphazardly. There are more CDs on the floor than in the rack.

Who'd want to be invited into this mess? Yohji grins. No one. Not like anyone'd be asked. Ken is like Aya. They both have outside faces and inside faces, although Ken is the quickest to show what he's thinking or feeling, if only to the rest of the team. Yohji thinks about it for a minute. There's still something Ken keeps for himself, like Aya. Yohji knows his own coping mechanism is pretending like it doesn't matter. But his two team-mates will never be able to pretend they doesn't care, even if one refuses to let it show and the other is incapable of hiding it. They both care, too deeply. Yohji hopes they always will.

Yohji shakes himself out of his funk and stares down at the box at his feet, flexing his fingers at the ache of carrying a box of tools and books up the stairs. Audi Transmission Manual, one says. Another, Porsche 944/928 Engines, is well-thumbed and grease-spattered. Rifling through the box, Yohji raises his eyebrows at the practical collection of oversized, filthy, fingerprinted paperback manuals. Audi. Jaguar. Porsche. MG. Mercedes. Austin-Healey. BMW. Volvo. Triumph. Volkswagen. Yohji lets the guides fall back into the box, thinking back to the kid who'd been waiting for him.

Rai's kid brother had those same washed-out gray eyes, alien in a city of dark-eyed, dark-haired people. The boy's face was long, with a pointed chin like his sister's, his dark brown hair as coarse and thick as hers. His cheeks were round, girlish, which created an even stronger likeness to Rai. His lips had the same look of thinness kiss-thickened into a soft fullness. The boy's fingers were thicker, however, and his shoulders were wider and more powerful.

The kid spoke only two or three cryptic lines that made the hair on the nape of Yohji's neck stand up, for reasons he still can't pin down. Where has she put the parts for the red Jaguar, and has she ordered the clutch cable? And something else. Tell Rai: he had, and I did. Yohji had nodded without repeating the message, and left without another word.

The man grimaces at the clothes scattered over the sofa. He wonders how long it took the two friends to find something to cover Rai's bruises without chafing the bandages. And since Ken's life is spent in jeans, t-shirts, and shorts, a girl's choice is probably limited.

Unfortunately, he isn't paying attention. His foot slams into one of the boxes, dislodging the cigar box perched on top. It hits the floor with a clatter, its contents upended across the wooden floor.

"Shit," Yohji mutters. He goes down on one knee to quickly scrape the items back into the box. Idly the man gathers the items together, automatically cataloging as though he were still a detective. A pressed corsage, faded and brown. A pair of large hoop earrings, the fake gold plating chipping off. A plastic ring like the kind dentists give kids - an oversized diamond of purple plastic. A photograph, bent at one edge, indecipherably blurry characters scribbled on the back. Yohji flips it over to look at the picture.

It's three kids. The two boys look not more than 11; the girl with them seems to be maybe a few years younger. Her hair is short, but pulled back in two ponytails that stick up at uneven angles. There's a band-aid on her cheek. The boy on the far right has an arm draped around his friend's shoulder, and the boy in the middle has returned the gesture with an equally casual arm. They're both wearing soccer jerseys.

Yohji blinks, staring at the boys' faces. The boy in the middle has to be Ken, that easy-going and open smile unmistakable. Ken is staring at the camera; his friend is staring at him. The girl is looking off a little to the left of the camera, her smile faintly sad. She's partially hidden behind Ken at the same time. The boy on Ken's right, Yohji concludes, must be Kase. He recognizes the expression. It's someone who wants something badly. Someone, Yohji thinks, isn't going to get it, and knows it, and hates because of it.

Strange dynamics of childhood friends, he thinks. Quietly he collects the rest of the items: a nearly empty perfume sampler bottle, a beaded bracelet with a broken clasp, two grimy and folded envelopes, a pink pen without a cap. A few more items and the entire box's contents are back in the treasure box. After a second, he digs into his back pocket and pulled out the card Rai had carried into the shop. Yohji gently lays the envelope on the top of the cigar box, then rocks back on his heels and stands up with a single fluid motion.

Without a second glance he leaves the apartment, locking the door behind him. Flipping the key in the air once before pocketing it, he heads down to the Kitten to relieve Ken.

...xxxXxxx...

Omi pushes away from the computer and rubs the back of his neck. Grabbing the printouts, he scans them quickly before shutting everything down and heading upstairs. This isn't going to be the best night. He can feel that already, but it's a favor to Ken.

Not, Omi admits, that Ken had asked. Ken, that crazy bastard, saw nothing wrong with drugging the girl and leaving her out cold until after he gets home. Thankfully Aya backed Omi up, notorious glare turned full-bore until Ken agreed to an alternate plan. Omi is still a little confused by Ken's willingness for deceit, since Ken is usually the most open of any of them.

Trudging upstairs, Omi runs a hand through his tangled hair. Maybe...no, going out to eat is out of the question. He'll need to be by the phone in case Ken or Aya reports in. It was supposed to be Yohji and Aya tonight. Ken must've chalked up a significant favor, and Yohji called it in.

New club opening downtown. Omi grins ruefully. Never let it be said the eldest of the team doesn't have priorities.

Outside Aya's door, Omi slips the paper under the door rather than knock. He trots up the last flight of stairs, turning the corner to his own door with a sigh. Stepping inside, he drops his shoes and pads softly to the computer. While it boots up, he checks the system attached to the cell phone.

If anything, his apartment veers closest to Ken's joyful mess, except that his own mess revolves mostly around electronic gadgets, old hard drives, mother boards, and three old monitors sitting against the wall. There's a laptop on the low table in the living room, and a bulky desktop system on the kitchen table. The printer is propped up on one of the mismatched kitchen chairs. A cord runs from it across the floor and over to the laptop. His apartment is mostly textbooks, notebooks, computer magazines, mangas, and programming manuals.

This is not going to make a good impression, Omi decides, and does his best to shovel the majority of his stuff into semi-organized piles. He worries for a second over the lack of a sofa. The rest of his team can manage the idea of large furniture, but his extra money always ends up at the computer store, or buying old parts online.

From what Yohji mentioned earlier, the girl is a bit of a geek. No. She's a gear-head. Maybe she'll have some ideas about what to do with the electrical system he hacked into last week. He's come up with several options, but it'd be nice to have a second set of eyes. Omi shakes his head at the thought. No, there's no way to come up with a decent explanation.

Here's a schematic, he imagines himself saying, what do you think might be the best way to wreck it? No. That won't work. Car mechanics fix things, not break them.

Omi glances over the apartment one last time before slipping on his shoes. It'll be dark soon. Ken is probably already pushing to get going. Omi pulls his door shut behind him and goes down to retrieve his non-date.

...xxxXxxx...

"Goddammit, Siberian, focus!"

Ken jerks his shoulder away from Aya's hand. "I am. You've left your position," he growls, turning away.

"I'd still be there if you has answered even one of my last sixteen calls," Aya retorts coldly. "I thought you'd passed out or shut off your transmitter."

Like you'd care anyway, Ken thinks dully. He considers saying it out loud: ice cubes run in your veins. A single glance at Aya's expression reminds him of the stupidity of doing that. Aya doesn't need the katana to kill. His glare is a registered weapon.

"Did you at least get the times for the exchanges?"

"Yeah." Ken steps out of the alleyway. His leather jacket is pulled tight around his chest. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets. "Already called Omi with the news."

There's silence as the two approach the corner. Aya startles Ken by stopping in front of the small café.

"Dinner," Aya says, guiding Ken into the restaurant. His tone brooks no argument.

"Not hungry." Ken's tone is sullen, but a skeptical grunt is the only response to his protest.

A few minutes later they're seated. Ken has rediscovered his appetite, and Aya is sipping hot tea while Ken nurses his coffee.

"So what's the occasion?" Ken's eyebrows are lowered as he shoots the question at his companion.

"I want to know if this is going to keep up," Aya replies evenly. "You were barely worth it last night, and tonight I don't think you've seen but a third of what's been under your nose." He sips his tea, grimacing at the still-hot liquid. "This keeps up, I'll take you off the mission."

"Fuck you," Ken mutters. "I'm fine."

That skeptical sound again, in the back of Aya's throat, but Ken's made no move to jump up and leave in a huff, so Aya doesn't push it. He suspects there's something Ken needs to say. His gut instinct tells him it'd be wiser to let Ken come around to it but waiting is a luxury Aya can't afford. He gives Ken a hard stare.

"What's going on?"

"Rai," Ken replies, his tone softer. He stares down at his beer. His expression's intent, as though he's forcibly trying to forget Aya's presence.

Aya bites back the words. You're quicker to say what's bothering you, he wants to say. You never make us drag it out of you. Ken's present quiet is forcing Aya to be the one to do the talking, and Aya's badly out of practice. He resigns himself to a battle of staring.

He stares at Ken, and Ken stares at the coffee cup.

"Keep feeling it's hypocritical to complain to you, of all people." Ken's brown eyes are cat-eye slits when he smiles wryly. "I can't protect her, Aya-kun. I want to. I always did." Ken leans back, his eyes focused on the middle distance. "Now... every time I see those scratches on her cheek, or check her stitches, it means I failed her. And I don't want to be reminded of that. I don't want to have failed her."

"Don't fail her next time, then." Aya's voice is remarkably level.

He unlocks his fingers, moving to clasp his empty cup rather demonstrate how much his hands shake at Ken's confession. Can he ever look at his sister again, knowing that her ordeal went from bad to unbearable because he'd not been there when he should have? Yeah, Aya knows all about it. Not wanting to be around her, but helpless to stay away. Unable to forget the failure – or forgive the crime.

"I guess." Ken's voice interrupts Aya's thoughts; Aya only nods.

When their dinners arrive, the two men eat in silence, pay in silence, and leave in silence. There's simply nothing else to say.

...xxxXxxx...


	4. chapter three

...xxxXxxx...

"You're bored."

"No." Rai shifts on the floor. She doesn't lift her head when she answers. "I like this magazine." She doesn't sound particularly enthusiastic.

Omi is surrounded by notebooks and textbooks, over on his side of the living room. Ken and Aya checked in around ten. They should be back by now. Maybe they stopped at a restaurant. He reads a calculus problem for the third time, and checks the time again, surreptitiously.

It doesn't seem as though Rai dislikes him too much, although when Ken told her the evening's plans she was less than friendly at first. Omi can't really blame her; anyone subjected to Aya's sense of helpfulness is bound to have a backlash in distrusting the majority of the human race for at least a day or two – or, at least, any members of the human race who are in neck-deep with the redhead. But pizza and manga relaxed the atmosphere. He'd suggested a movie but gave in when she pushed him to admit he had homework, so she's now reading manga while he studies.

"I'll be done in a few minutes," Omi finally says. "We can watch a movie then, if you like."

She makes a noncommittal sound. Paper rustles; she turns a page.

The phone rings. Omi reaches for the headset and brings it to his ear in a fast motion from years of practice.

"Where are you?" Oh, shit, he thinks. This isn't good. "Yeah," he says into the voice piece. "On my way."

He lets the headset fall to the floor and concentrates on letting his face smooth over as if everything's fine. After a second he opens his eyes, smiling widely at Rai.

"You need to stay here for a little while by yourself," Omi says, choosing his tone carefully. "I need to help Aya with some stuff."

"That's cool." Rai lays the magazine aside and pulls her legs under her as she speaks. "I'll head back to Ken's."

"No," Omi replies, a little too quickly. She shoots him a strange look and he smiles again. "I'll be back before you know it."

Rai slowly sinks back down, her expression puzzled. She stares at Omi for several seconds, then slowly nods. Her hair falls in her face as she turns away, and she picks the magazine up as if it wasn't worth further protest. Omi nods, satisfied.

"I'll be back in just a few."

He slips his feet into his sneakers and pulls the door shut behind him. Omi pauses outside the door, then silently locks the door behind him. It wouldn't hold his teammates in, but the need for a key on the interior side would definitely keep an amateur in one place for a while.

He takes off down the stairs for Ken's apartment, cursing the entire situation under his breath. He's got to make this fast.

...xxxXxxx...

Aya opens the door to Ken's apartment, his lips thin in his pale face. Wordlessly he opens the door wider, letting Omi slip past.

"The bedroom?" Omi toes his shoes off.

Aya grunts; he's putting on his boots. Omi takes that as a yes, noticing a streak of red covering Aya's jacket, and drying blood on Aya's left hand. By the time Omi ducks into Ken's bedroom, Aya is gone.

"Ken," Omi whispers, his eyebrows up to see Ken hunched on the bed, cradling his arm to his chest. "What happened?"

"Ran into Farf after dinner." Ken looks up, grimacing.

Aya must have helped Ken out of his jacket but hadn't stuck around to do more than call for Omi's help. That's fine by Omi, anyway. Aya makes a piss-poor nurse when he's cranky. Omi gathers up the med-kit, setting it to the side, ready to go.

"We were walking out, he was walking in. And no, Schuldig was nowhere around."

"Strange. They're always together." Omi pulls Ken's arm away from his chest and studies the deep gash in Ken's forearm. "I'll stitch it up."

"Where's Rai?"

"Reading manga in my apartment."

"You're kidding." Ken grins.

"What's so funny?"

"She hates comics." Ken's grin gets wider, despite a mild wince as Omi dabs at the caked blood with an antiseptic cloth. "Hell, she hates reading anything that isn't a car manual."

Omi's eyes are wide as he stares down at the cut. Farfarello got a good one in on Ken. Means Ken must've been distracted. Either he was arguing with Aya again, or there's something else on his mind. Omi studies Ken out of the corner of his eye and knocks the argument theory off the list. If that were true, both Aya and Ken would be halfway to unconscious and covered with more than a few bruises. Their arguments tend to get violent, fast.

Omi sighs and drags the first aid kit to the edge of the bed. Dabbing the topical painkiller on Ken's arm, he prepares suture and thread.

"I don't know if that was—"

"I know what you're going to say," Ken interrupts. "I heard enough from Aya already about it. Didn't stop him from kicking the daylights outta Farf when he got the chance."

"Of course." Omi sits back on his heels, taking a break from leaning over Ken's arm. "He wouldn't have left you there," he tells his teammate.

"Like hell," Ken replies, but his voice is softer. "He would love for me to fall off the face of the planet right now."

"Ken-Ken," Omi says. He shuts his mouth as Ken jerks his arm away.

"Look, I'm a screw-up. Let's talk about something else."

"I'll wrap this and we'll be done." Omi pulls the last stitches and carefully snips the end of the thread.

...xxxXxxx...

Ken's front door slams and both men instinctively freeze. Omi motions to Ken and rocks back on his heels to see into the hallway, one hand slipping to his hidden stash of darts. He relaxes at familiar light footsteps, and a few seconds later Aya appears in the bedroom doorway. He looks over Ken, but his frown fades slightly when he glances at Omi's handiwork.

"Are you done yet?"

"Almost, Aya-kun," Omi replies with a smile. He begins winding bandages around Ken's right arm.

"I'll go get your bike," Aya states.

Ken is startled by the offer. "No need." He can hear the defensiveness in his voice; Aya's eyebrow goes up, and Ken fights the urge to bristle. "I'll call a cab and head over there."

Aya grunts, dismissal and disbelief, his eyebrow arching again. "You deal with Rai." He crosses his arms, leaning against the doorjamb as he watches his teammates. "I'll get the bike. We can't leave it there overnight."

"Why not?" Omi is searching the kit for a butterfly clip.

"The whole area around the Meiji Shrine is a towing area if you don't have a permit." Aya's voice is remote. "Besides, I don't want to leave it there for Schwartz to find. The restaurant was only a block off Omotesando Avenue."

"He's got a point," Omi tells Ken.

Ken grits his teeth. He's visualizing using Aya's head to make a new window in his bedroom. He would have been fine riding the bike home, but Aya won't hear of it. No, Ken considers, the bastard wouldn't want to miss a chance to be even more martyred by having a wounded team mate bleed all over the precious leather interior of that stupid sports car.

Omi piles the first aid materials back into the kit; Ken comes to his feet.

"Omi," Ken says, avoiding Aya's knowing gaze. "If you could keep Rai busy for another half-hour, I'm going to call a cab and go get the bike myself."

He silently dares Aya to offer him a ride, although he doubts Aya would bother. Doesn't matter; either way Aya would retain that self-righteous attitude. Ken yanks his sliced shirt off, grabbing a clean one from the dresser as he shoves past Aya. He pulls it over his head in the four steps to the kitchen, blindly putting his hand down to the countertop for his keys.

His hand hits the countertop, his fingers catch nothing, and he sweeps his hand in a wider arc. Ken jumps slightly when the back of his hand catches his helmet, which promptly flies off the countertop and bounces a few times on the linoleum. Most of his stuff is already unbreakable, so he isn't worried. He ignores Aya's disapproval, radiating in waves from where he stands by the cluttered table.

Ken is too busy focusing on why his keys aren't on the countertop. He always drops his keys and his wallet right here. Coming in with the human ice cube hadn't interrupted that habit. His wallet is sitting right where he'd left it. He knows he was the one who unlocked the door, so they hadn't used the spare Aya kept on his own chain.

He turns around, scanning all horizontal spaces in the apartment in a rapid circle. No, he'd stopped in the kitchen and then headed straight back to his room. He hadn't wanted to be in the living room if Omi had no choice but to bring Rai with him. Ken's sure she'd believe he got into a bar fight; she'd give him hell, but she'd believe him. He just doesn't want to lie if he can help it.

"Ken-Ken," Omi whispers, his blue eyes startlingly large in his heart-shaped face. "Where's your spare helmet?"

"My what?" Ken glances down at Omi, his brow furrowed. "I'm looking for my keys."

"Your helmet." Omi holds up the motorcycle helmet before putting it back on the edge of the kitchen counter. "When I came in, your helmet and your spare were both sitting there. Now there's just one."

Ken stares down at his wallet with a dawning feeling of horror, and slowly drags the wallet towards him, flipping it open. "I'm missing 2,000 yen."

Aya looks over, glancing down at the wallet and then back at Ken. "How do you know?"

"Because I paid for dinner and ended up with exactly 2,000 yen left." Ken puts the wallet back on the countertop and feels the back pocket of his jeans. "Shit." He takes a deep breath and digs his left hand into each of his jeans pockets. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"Ken!" Omi is starting to sound scared. "What's going on?"

"The print-out," Ken grits out. "I took it out of my pocket and left it on the countertop with my wallet."

"What?" Aya's violet eyes are narrow and harsh; his entire body vibrates with fury. Ken takes an involuntary step backwards. "You just leave it out where anyone could find it?"

"What about you? Did you leave my door unlocked?" Ken retorts hotly. "I was busy getting my latest scar tailored, if you didn't notice!"

"_Lock_..." Omi's soft voice interrupts the two men.

Suddenly he's sprinting past them. He doesn't even stop to put on his sneakers but tears the door open and darts out without a backwards look. Surprised, the two men immediately take off after him. They find his apartment door open, and Aya nearly runs into Ken when he pauses at Omi's threshold.

"Idiot." Aya's tone is between exasperated and incredulous. "This girl— did you even—"

"Shut up," Ken spits back. "I don't want to hear it. There's got to be a reason for this."

He can't think, between his head spinning a little from the blood loss, and Aya's furious glare. The topical painkiller is already starting to wear off thanks to the endorphin rush of finding that his friend has stolen his keys, one of his helmets, and 2,000 yen. Angrily he shakes his head and pushes past Aya, into Omi's cluttered space. Aya draws back at the contact, and Ken has to take a deep breath to keep from taking offense at Aya's usual response to having his personal space violated.

I'll punch him later, says a small amused voice somewhere in the back of his head. Ken adds Aya's proximity alarms back into the mental list of things that bug him about his teammate.

Omi is crouched in the middle of a pile of keys, notepads, pens, flyers for local take-out places. "Her shoes are gone. So's her jacket." One of his drawers has been dumped upside down onto the floor.

Aya comes to stand by Omi, who's crouched in front of the drawer's contents. He kneels down, swiping a luggage key with two delicate fingers. "Junk drawer?"

Omi nods, his face pale.

"You keep spare keys in here, too?" Aya's voice is level and controlled.

Omi nods again.

"Hey," Ken says, puzzled. He's in the living room, staring down at something. "Do you usually leave your bag like that?"

"What?" Omi starts. Ken is holding up his empty school pack, and Omi rounds the kitchen island to gape at the entire contents of his school bag dumped in a pile. "Why would..."

"Is anything missing?" Ken's voice is soft, dangerously soft for the anger coursing through his veins.

When he finds Rai, he's going to pummel her into next week. No, he'll yell at her. No, he'll hit her so hard her grandmother will feel it. She's gone through my friend's stuff, took my money and my bike keys... Yeah, that annoying small voice reminds him, she did all that after you ditched her for five hours without a really good reason and made her stay with a babysitter who locked her in. Who wouldn't bolt?

Ken sighs, the fight draining out of him. His shoulders slump as Omi digs through the pile of pencils, homework assignments, and various school-related odds and ends.

"My school ID," Omi says. He sits back on his heels and scratches his head. "Why would someone take that?"

Ken starts laughing. "For getting out of – or into – locked apartments."

Aya glances behind him to the door, reaching out with a hand to shut it when he realizes it's ajar.

"Must not have worked when getting out," Ken continues. "Or she won't have gone through your kitchen drawers." He stifles the urge to bash his fist into the wall; his second impulse is to giggle hysterically. He coughs instead. This is just turning out to be one seriously fucked-up week. "Anyway, I'm going back to my place. You need me, you know where to find me."

"Ken-Ken," Omi starts to say, but Ken holds up a hand as he stops at the door.

"No," Ken replies evenly, ignoring the furiously cold vibes rolling off Aya. "I don't want to hear it. She'll come back, she'll give me a reason, and I'll get you back your stuff." Without another word he yanks the door open, not even bothering to shut it behind him as he strides off down the corridor.

...xxxXxxx...

The garage is dark, and a bit chilly on the spring midnight. Omi is pulling on his helmet, when he looks up to see Aya. There were no footsteps warning him, but he's learned to sense when his too-silent teammate is around. Aya is standing before the scooter with an irritated expression.

"Aya-kun," Omi replies to the unspoken command. "Someone's got to see if she's okay. She's got the keys, and the address list. If she's gone to get the bike..."

Neither man sees a reason to note that Omi's got his crossbow slung across his back, or that Aya's katana case is slung over his shoulder. They both know what it means.

"Get some sleep." Aya waits until Omi nods agreement, setting his helmet down. Aya folds his long limbs into the low-slung Porsche, pulling out of the garage bay without a second glance.

...xxxXxxx...

Ken has counted time by the beers collected at his feet. Four beers; she's been gone a little over an hour. Sighing, he props his head up on his chin, his elbows on his knees, his right hand dangling uselessly. The dark brown hair, tangled and overgrown, falls into his face, masking the kitchen's overhead light from his eyes.

It takes a second to register the draught from the front door opening and closing. Somewhere, in the back of his brain, it becomes a little clearer how she could get in and out, if the door could open and close that quietly.

Thud.

One boot hits the floor.

Ken wouldn't know how quiet things could be. He's always banged the door open and banged it shut again. Idly he wonders if this one more reason Aya glares at him in the mornings.

Thud.

The other boot hits the floor.

With a quiet sigh, Ken closes his eyes again. Does he want to deal with this right now?

Socked feet pad towards Ken, and he feels more than hears Rai kneel down in front of him. He doesn't open his eyes, and it startles him for a heartbeat when her fingertips settle onto his knees. He can feel warm breath on his cheek and fights the urge to bolt upright.

"Was I wrong?" Rai's voice is sorrowful, but quiet. "To believe in you?"

Ken frowns. This wasn't what he expected, and he pauses before slowly opening his eyes to see Rai's gray eyes are swollen and red. Her face is stained with clean streaks where tears must have coursed down her cheeks.

"Believe in me what?" His voice startles him. It sounds louder than he'd meant it to.

"I always believed you were innocent." Distrustful. Hurt. Even accusing. "All this time, you weren't?"

"I was." Ken frowns again, his eyes searching her face. "I am."

"Right." She sits back on her heels. Her shoulders slump, and she rubs her nose for a second before speaking. Her tone borders on sarcastic. "So you fight just for the fun of it?"

"It's not..." Ken cuts himself off.

What's he supposed to say? I'm an assassin, and if you hadn't come home I would have tracked you down and killed you for taking that printout? He turns his head, to stare across the cluttered apartment, rather than continue to see her tear-stained face. That is, assuming my teammates wouldn't have killed you already. No, there's nothing to say.

"You're in something bad," she finally says, watching him closely. "Will you tell me?"

"No."

"Can I help?"

"No."

"I didn't think so." Rai exhales, long and slow, and starts gathering the beer bottles. She seems disappointed, as if she doesn't believe him. Or maybe she does, but doesn't want to because doing so raises more questions.

"You don't have to do that," Ken says, but he makes no move to stop her as she gets up. She dumps the bottles in the trash. "Leave it," he tells her when she comes back for the case. She nods, digging out a beer for herself.

"You don't have forty-two thousand yen," she says. Her voice is flat, as though she were commenting about the weather.

"Do too," he retorts, leaning over to get a beer for himself. Number five? Number six? Whatever.

"This isn't going to get us anywhere." Her observation is met with silence; Ken goes back to staring at the kitchen wall.

There's a pause, and Ken reluctantly looks over, surprised to see her digging in one of her boxes of clothes. After a second she pulls out a dark green bottle and sets it down with a solid thud on the floor between them. Two shot glasses follow it.

"I'm not drinking that crap," he tells her.

He recognizes the brand. It's repulsive. Strong, opiate-based stuff that could bring a grown man to his knees. Ken kissed a girl once that drank that stuff. Her lips tasted of black licorice, heady and sweet. He didn't bring her home, he remembers now. He just kissed her in the alley and pulled away before she could respond. He wonders why he's thinking of it, and drags his attention back to Rai, the bottle, and the two shot glasses.

"We each ask a question. If you don't want to answer it, you take a shot," she explains. "You can go first," she adds graciously.

Ken settles cross-legged on the floor facing her. All he wants to do is tell her the truth... and he can't. His mind is spinning, behind his serious expression, and he's not sure whether it's really just the alcohol. He can't tell her about his life now, but he doesn't want her thinking Kase's lies were real. She'd always believed in Ken, when so few else did. He knows he doesn't want to lose that, but without a good explanation? Ken shakes his head. Get a grip. She's not going to keep going on faith, not with the way things must look to her, now.

"What do you want the money for," he asks.

"I need ten thousand for false papers." She leans against the wall, her eyes half-lidded as she takes a swig of the beer.

"Why?"

"No," she replies. "My turn. What happened to your arm?"

Ken's surprised. He didn't realize she'd noticed he was favoring the arm. Or maybe she noticed that he's wearing long sleeves on a relatively nice spring evening. Or perhaps it's just that one forearm is twice the size of the other, thanks to Omi's thick bandages.

"Got cut up in a knife fight. What are the papers for?" He takes a drink, and the reply comes back at him. Fast.

"Need to convince someone I'm twenty-one. Do you know the guy you fought?"

"Yeah. You in something illegal?" He clenches his jaw, not sure what answer he wants to hear.

"What?"

"For why you need papers."

"Oh. No. Not really."

There's a pause, and Ken glances up to see Rai looking away from him. There's a line forming between her eyebrows, and she looks a little confused. Finally she shakes her head, turning to look at him again.

"Not illegal if I were twenty-one." When he nods, she relaxes. "How do you know the guy?"

Deliberately Ken leans forward, his eyes locked on hers as he picks up the large green bottle. He takes the shot with a quick tilt of his head, gasping slightly as the thick liquid pours down his throat. It tastes like cough medicine, if cough medicine came in black licorice flavor. Ken settles back down, his hands on his knees as he stiffly sits cross-legged.

"My turn," he tells her. "What's the rest of the money for?"

There's a slightly longer pause before she answers. "An operation. Why did you drug me last night?"

"We were stitching you up and removing rocks from your feet. Did you really want to be awake for that?"

"That a question?"

Ken shrugs.

"Then... no, I wouldn't. I found the bottle. Why'd you give me three when the dosage is one?"

"I gave you two. The third was an antibiotic." He takes another swig of beer. The liquor is making his throat feel numb. His fingers are starting to tingle. "What's the operation?"

Without hesitation her fingers wrap around the bottle, pouring herself a shot and tossing it back with calm efficiency. Setting the shot glass down in front of her, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes defiant.

"I woke up while you were gone," she says. Flat, annoyed. Maybe a little hurt, but Ken wouldn't be able to tell if her fingers weren't playing nervously with the seam of her jeans. "Where'd you go?"

"I had to work."

How many questions can he dodge? That liquor is strong. It doesn't help he's on his fifth beer, or sixth beer, or whatever. She's pulling her ponytail holder out, and he can clearly see lines of exhaustion on her face. He'd not noticed before, too distracted by her puffy red eyes.

Ken blows his unruly bangs out of his face before speaking. "Why were you crying?"

"I was humiliated! Thinking I'd defended you when you'd really done what everyone said you had." She glances away from him, then comes up on her knees to drag a piece of paper out of her back pocket. "What was this for?"

"Work. Why'd you go after the bike?"

"I wanted..." Tears are forming in Rai's eyes. She bristles at his gaze, blinking hard, forcing the tears back. "I wanted to help. Whose addresses are these?"

"Clients." That's close enough to the truth, he figures. "If you wanted to help, why didn't you let us know you were here?" Not that I would've been thrilled to see you, Ken admits to himself unhappily. The whole point was for her to be out of the way.

"I was going to, but..." She shakes herself.

"Answer the question."

"I did," she replies.

"No," Ken interrupts. "You have to answer the whole question or we'll never get anywhere. I want to sleep at some point tonight. I have to work tomorrow."

"Fine," she snaps. "I was going to, but then that Aya guy or whatever his name is came in, and I ducked behind the kitchen island rather than deal with him. I don't like him, and after hearing him be all nasty to you, I just wanted to punch him." Rai takes a swig of beer, following it up with a defiant look at Ken. "That good enough?"

He nods.

"Is he always like that?" Her expression's surly.

Ken's startled. "Aya?" When Rai raises her eyebrows, as if to say 'who else?', he can't help himself and grins at her. "Yeah, pretty much, but he's not a bad guy. Just...not a people-person. What was the fight for?"

"They found out who I was dating. Why did Omi lock me in his apartment?"

"I think he was trying to keep you safe." Ken shrugs. "Why don't your brothers like your boyfriend?"

"He's not Japanese. Can I beat Omi up later for being so rude?"

"After you return his school ID and spare apartment key." Ken drains the rest of his beer and gets up for something less alcoholic. He's amused to find his feet aren't quite as steady, and he accidentally kicks the shot glass. Rai scrambles after it, and he laughs. "I think you'd be surprised how much fight Omi could put up," he tells her. The kid may prefer long-range but he's got more grace than this scrappy little brawler with the barely-healed scratches on her cheek and the florid bruise running down her leg. "Let's move to the sofa."

It takes some arranging, but soon they're lying across the sofa at opposite ends. Ken's got one leg bent up and the other stretched out. Rai faces him, her ankles crossed between his legs. It's an old position, from how they used to lie when watching movies at the foster home, but their legs are longer now, Ken notes, absently amused. She's got a fresh beer; the shot glasses and green glass bottle sit waiting on the coffee table.

"Who was next?" Rai fiddles with the label on the beer.

"Me." Ken sighs. "How'd you get this alcohol?"

"It was a gift." Rai sneaks a glance at him, and he's surprised to see a shy smile on her face. "What clients want flowers at midnight?"

"We weren't delivering flowers." Ken knows the flippant response won't be enough to satisfy her. He rubs his forehead as he throws out his next question. "Your boyfriend give you a lot of things?" A sudden intake of breath from the other end of the sofa means he hit the mark on that one.

"Not really. Are you mixed up in anything illegal?"

"No," he finally says. He thinks about adding, 'if I told you, I'd have to kill you,' but the joke is too close to the truth. The thought makes him cautious ask he asks his question. "What else has your boyfriend given you?"

"A knife and a gun."

"What?" Ken's voice is loud and abrupt. He sits bolt upright, his dropped drink rolling across the wooden floor to bump against the sofa's base. "What in the holy fuck are you doing with a gun?"

Rai flinches. "Nothing, yet." She turns her head away. "That's two questions. It's my turn."

"Screw the fucking questions!" Ken shakes his head. "Do you have any idea what would happen to you if anyone finds out you have a gun?"

"Yeah," she says, sullenly. She brings her legs up into her chest and wraps her arms around her shins. She winces at the motion, and he knows the stitches in her shoulder and thigh were pulled.

"I don't think so," Ken barks. "They're illegal. You'll go to jail if anyone finds out you've got one."

"You gonna turn me in?" Rai's sudden ice-water fear is tempered by a burst of indignation that her old friend might betray her. The end result is that her words sound strangled, torn between the two strong emotions.

Ken stares at her for several seconds before his face relaxes. There's still some anger seeping from him, but it's subsiding even as he pulls her back to her original position.

"No," he says after another long silence. "I wouldn't turn you in."

"Thanks for small favors," she replies, glancing at him. His lips are quirking at the edges, and she scowls. "Don't you dare laugh. It's not funny."

"I think so." Ken's lips twitch up at the corners. "What kind of boyfriend gives his girlfriend a knife, a gun, and a bottle of cough syrup?"

"We playing questions again?"

"Sure," Ken replies, picking up the bottle from the floor. He turns the lights off when he returns to clean the spill, knocking over a stack of magazines in the process. "Fuck," he mutters, then shrugs and settles himself back on the sofa.

"My turn," Rai informs him when he hands her one of the drinks. "Actually I should get several turns, I think."

"No, you don't."

"Fine." Her hair is slipping in her face again, and she tucks some of it behind an ear while she thinks. "Why didn't you want me staying in your apartment while you were gone?"

Oh, Ken thinks. Back to that. Because I didn't want you finding anything bloodstained. Because I didn't want you finding old gloves I've been meaning to get fixed. Because I didn't have a chance to move anything to the shop's basement. Because I was too tired last night to care.

"Pour me a shot," he replies.

Rai grimaces, but obeys. Ken tips the shot glass, frowning slightly as the cool liquid coats his throat again. There's a clink as the shot glass is set on the floor by the sofa, and he takes a quick swig of soda to rinse the taste from his mouth.

"Do you even know how to shoot a gun?"

"No. You gonna teach me?"

"I could." Ken smirks at her surprise. "I heard the message Yohji gave you. What'd it mean?"

"It meant Akira saw my...boyfriend." Rai hesitates on the word, as if it's a newer concept than she'd like to admit. She rubs her nose a few times and leans back against the arm of the sofa. "How do you make enough money for your own place if you only work at a flower shop?"

Nail, hammer, bang.

Ken wonders if she'd figured it out right away and just waited to spring it on him. You either have cash, or you don't, and you don't get it working in a florist shop. Not with the cost of living in Shibuya. He sighs.

"I have...other work. What did the message mean?"

"Means Eric came by, and Akira told him what happened. What other work?"

He grins, suddenly amused at the thought of Rai, with a _boyfriend_. The tomboy found a _boyfriend_. He knows he's drunk, and for a moment, he doesn't care about all the rest – the blood, the money, the questions. Rai blushes deeply, looking away from him with an annoyed expression.

"Stop looking at me like that."

Ken grunts, doing his best Rai imitation. And Aya, that small voice in his head says. Don't you pity Aya-chan, the voice teases, if you have this much aggravation dealing with a Mini-Aya? Imagine having a full-blown Aya as a sibling. Ken growls quietly at himself. Shut up. Stay focused.

"I do freelance work for..." Ken pauses. His reaction time is slowing, thanks to that stupid liquor moving through his veins. It's slowing down his thinking, which is never that fast in the first place. Action is his forte, not this slow considered phrasing. That's Aya's skill, logically reasoning things out. Or Yohji's, coming up with the most charming, manipulative way to say something without really saying anything at all. Even Omi is witty, bantering cheerfully where Ken just feels tongue-tied.

"So are you gonna finish that sentence?"

"Oh. Right." He wonders what time it is, but a glance at the VCR reminds him it's never been set. "I do freelance work for... a kind of security company." Not even close, he thinks, but he can't handle another shot so soon after the first. "Your boyfriend have something to do with why you want money?"

Rai pours herself a shot. Her silence as good as answers the question.

"All four of you do this freelance work?" Rai's staring at the shot glass. Ken wonders if she's keeping it handy in case.

"I'm not answering for anyone else."

"Then take a shot."

"No." Ken crosses his arms. "That question's out of bounds. Not my problem if you don't like it. Why won't Eric loan you the money?"

"Not his problem. Will you teach me to fight?"

"Will I what?" That was unexpected. His fuzzy brain pushes the gun discussion to the forefront and he smirks. "Yeah," he reluctantly says. "Sure." It might even do her some good, if she plans on... "You going to keep seeing this guy?"

"I don't know." Rai's gaze falls on the fallen magazines, the glossy covers spread out across the wooden floor, dark shapes against the floor. "Will you still loan me the money?"

Her tone is bland, but Ken can see one large gray eye looking sadly at nothing in particular. He settles back farther into the sofa. Rai response by wriggling downwards on the sofa, her ankles slipping into his armpits as she lays her head down at the opposite end.

"Of course," Ken chides her. He stares up at the ceiling, then lets his eyes slowly close. "You in love with him?"

"I don't know." Her voice is softer, trailing off on the last word.

Ken can feel her legs relaxing along his torso, and her breathing deepens. He's at the threshold of sleep when she shifts slightly. Her returning question is a caress of words in the dark room.

"Were you in love with Kase?"

...xxxXxxx...


End file.
